


perchance to breathe

by Iris_Duncan_72



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Consensual Possession, Demonic Possession, M/M, Religious Cults, Torture, kind of like demonic soulmates, more or less, of a very dubious nature, off-screen tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Duncan_72/pseuds/Iris_Duncan_72
Summary: Chan's demon finds him at last.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han
Comments: 11
Kudos: 155





	perchance to breathe

It takes Chan a while to realise he’s conscious again. Everything is a haze of exhaustion and pain and delirium and, really, at this point he’s not sure he can trust his senses. _Is_ he awake? There’s no difference, no way to tell.

He blinks and is vaguely surprised that his eyelids still work or that he even has eyes. Hadn’t they been burned out a while ago? He’s sure he remembers the glow of a white-hot poker and a pitiless voice telling him he deserved this, that they were purifying the sin he’d been born with out of him. Chan _definitely_ remembers a mage, though, so it’s possible that particular experience happened only in the confines of his fractured mind. Another blink and grey stone comes into slightly blurry focus, the rough paving slabs streaked with blood. Chan knows he’s vomited at least three times by now but there’s no evidence of that now. He recalls the icy slap of cold water on his bare skin so maybe it’s been washed away. Distantly, he wonders how much blood he’s lost if there’s _this_ much still on the ground.

It’s a while or perhaps no time at all before he has the strength to lift his head a fraction to look around. There’s not much point to it, of course, because Chan knows where he is, he knows what the cell looks like, he knows he’s alone right now, and all the movement does is cause the bubbling pain engulfing his body to flare up. He fights to breathe through the seething agony but doesn’t give in to it. It doesn’t matter that he knows the layout of the torture chamber – something feral and snarling deep, deep in his core demands he look once more, demands he not be caught unawares again.

Gods, if he survives this (and that’s a big if), Chan’s paranoia is going to skyrocket. He’s spent his entire life running and hiding, looking over his shoulder and jumping into a defensive stance at every single shadow, so it’s just fucking _unfair_ that when his luck finally ran out, it wasn’t even the demons that got him. It wasn’t _his_ demon that got him. No, it was the people who’d raised him, the ones who taught him to fear the innocuous little mark on the back of his right thigh and despise himself for being born with it – the Order of White Eyes. Perhaps Chan should have seen it coming. He knows most of the Order doesn’t trust him, despite all the tattoos of binding and purity he’s gotten, tattoos that prevent his demon from finding his soul and turning him into an insanely powerful puppet.

So, maybe Chan shouldn’t be surprised about _who_ his kidnappers are (he’s always known things would end up like this, one way or another) but a cautious glance down at himself leaves him confused as to what the fuck they’re doing. He’s naked, of course, held up only by his hallowed iron restraints, and where his skin isn’t smeared with his own blood, it’s raw and glistening or bruised purple. Everything hurts, from breathing to blinking to flexing even a single muscle. Groggy though he may be, Chan can’t help but notice most of the damage is concentrated over the very tattoos he started receiving at the tender age of five.

And, really. What the _fuck?_

Some of the injuries are bad enough that the tattoo is mostly obliterated or warped enough to no longer provide any protection.

_What the fuck??_

Chan’s brain struggles to kick into high gear but the sudden rush of adrenaline and the cold, cold edge of panic creeping in do a good job of jolting it to life. This is outrageously dangerous and totally incomprehensible. They’re the _Order of White Eyes_ , for gods’ sake, they’re the ones who put the tattoos on him in first place! Why would they _possibly_ want to –

Sensation whispers through the back of his mind and his skin crawls, the fine hairs standing upright.

Chan swallows thickly, wincing as his cracked lips twinge and ooze a little more blood. The panic builds, a steadily growing pressure behind his cracked sternum, and the sensation comes again. It’s almost like someone stroking their fingertips over the inside of his skull and he begins to tremble, the still functioning tattoos burning fiercely on his flesh. When the unnerving caress under his skin turns suddenly sharp and biting, he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, his voice too wrecked to support so much as a whimper.

‘Well, aren’t you a sorry sight, hmm?’

Chan’s heart turns to stone in his chest and his eyes fly open again, running straight into a hard stare. The eyes are entirely black and seem to suck in the light around them, threatening to swallow Chan whole until his tattoos prick him with a thousand white-hot needles and he shudders, breaking eye contact. The resulting pain from that small movement nearly shoves him into unconsciousness, his broken bones and abused flesh screaming.

‘Oh dear, they’ve done quite a number on you,’ says the demon Chan has spent his whole life running from. ‘And you’ve still got too many wards carved into you for me to help, what a pity.’

The demon is slight, his skin honey-coloured and smooth, his long hair gold, and his feet bare. Clad only in simple shorts and a tunic, both black, the demon is somehow utterly magnetising, sheer confidence rolling off him in waves as he smiles faintly.

As suddenly as it arrived, the panic swamping Chan recedes, leaving him even more drained. He sags limply in his chains, despair chilling him under the burn of his tattoos and wounds.

‘I’m not surprised you’re confused,’ the demon muses, hands in his pockets, prowling around the room before returning to Chan. ‘Why would anyone undo the wards on a Marked, let alone a bunch of fucking _white-eyes_ , right?’

Chan doesn’t have white eyes. He could never receive that blessing, not with a demon’s mark on him. Just one of many things to set him apart from everyone else in the Order.

‘Do you wanna know?’ The demon crooks a finger under Chan’s chin, tipping it up until that voracious black stare fills his line of sight. ‘Do you wanna know why your own kind betrayed you?’

He does, desperately so, but he doesn’t want to hear it from the _demon_.

The heart-shaped smile broadens, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘They’re trying to trap me. They want me to come find you when they’ve broken all your wards so that when I possess you, you’ll be too weak for me to use. Then they’ll kill us both.’

A ragged wheeze punches out of Chan’s lungs like he’s been kicked in the chest. _No,_ he tries to say. _They wouldn’t do that to me._

‘Oh yes they would,’ the demon refutes cheerfully. ‘Too bad they weren’t paying enough attention to which wards they scrubbed first.’ He shakes his head with a chuckle, the sound fondly amused but for the undercurrent of vicious excitement. ‘If they’d saved this one for last –’ he lightly taps the mottled skin of Chan’s left hip – ‘I wouldn’t’ve been able to find you yet.’

Chan’s brows twitch together fractionally. _You still can’t possess me._ The searing pain of his remaining tattoos ensures that.

‘True enough,’ the demon agrees, rocking back on his heels. He cocks his head just a little further than a human could comfortably manage. ‘Unless you give me permission.’

Chan expels his breath as forcefully as possible in an attempt to convey his disbelief. He wouldn’t _invite_ a godsdamn _demon_ into himself! He might as well hand over the keys to his soul and sign up for an eternity of suffering. At least when the Order kills him, Chan will be able to move on from this awful life.

The demon snorts like Chan just told a good joke. ‘You think so little of your suffering _now?_ And what of when they finally, finally break you open, hmm?’ He leans in close, the faint scent of overripe berries and wood smoke catching in Chan’s nostrils. ‘Do you know what it’s _like_ , being unwillingly possessed? Do you know how _hard_ it is to kill a demon, even if their human body is nothing more than a ruined sack of meat?’

Lashes fluttering down, Chan says nothing but inside, something is breaking, something that the Order could not touch. He is so tired of hurting, he just wants it to _stop_.

 _‘I_ can make it stop,’ the demon croons, skimming his fingertips over Chan’s jaw. ‘It’s better for both parties if the possession is willing, you know.’

Bitter scorn rises up, acid on the back of Chan’s tongue. _Your words mean nothing! Human pain is entertainment to you and I’d be stuck as your twenty-four-hour live show until the gods recast this planet if I let you in._ Never mind that he’d be going against everything he’s ever been taught... even if by the very people who torture him now.

‘Mmm, yes, I freely admit that I enjoy a little indiscriminate bloodshed from time to time. But not from _you_ , Chan –’

Chan jerks, chains rattling, and his lashes flick up again. His dislocated shoulder shrieks at him but he’s distracted – the demon knows his name?

Velvety black eyes seize his attention and the demon hums smugly. ‘Of course I know your name. You are _my_ Marked, after all.’

Chan fights not to recoil at the reminder and the demon’s grip on his jaw tightens ever so slightly, keeping him still.

‘I wouldn’t hurt you,’ he all but purrs. ‘I may set the world on fire and laugh as it burns and dance among its ashes, but I wouldn’t hurt _you_. You are mine, Chan, you know this and so do all those miserable white-eyes. It’s why they fear you, why they hate you.’

The words are a seduction and Chan feels them sliding through the cracks, dripping into his core, coiling gently, implacably around his heart. He swallows, then coughs when his throat catches, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. The demon coos wordlessly and licks the budding droplets away, his tongue warm and soft, and gods forgive him but Chan leans into the contact. He can’t remember the last time anyone touched him without disgust or the desire to hurt.

‘Come now,’ the demon murmurs by Chan’s ear, fingers twining with blood-matted curls. ‘How long have you dedicated yourself to this path, Chan? How much of your life have you sacrificed to please the white-eyes’?’ His lips brush Chan’s ear and he’s too tired to flinch away. ‘And look where it’s gotten you. Trussed up and tortured.’

Agony pulses through the parts of Chan that haven’t gone worryingly numb and his breath hitches, head lolling in the demon’s hold.

‘You have offered them your loyalty for so long and yet they still don’t trust you, still you live on their sufferance.’

His heart, it is cracking like glass underfoot.

‘They have proven themselves unworthy of you, Chan, and now they punish you for something you have no control over.’

The smell of wood smoke grows, acrid and heady, while the berries seem to burst in his mouth, sweet and rich. The demon’s voracious gaze holds him fast and Chan could drown in it.

‘Let me in and you will never hurt again, I swear it on any god you like. Take the choice from their hands, for it is not theirs to make, hmm? Let me in and _become.’_

Chan blinks, slow and sluggish, exhaustion dragging at his bones, digging its claws in deep. He thinks he can hear heavy footsteps approaching, cold voices talking to one another, and the smallest whimper escapes him, the whisper of sound a plea for mercy, for release, for comfort.

The demon smiles widely and is it possible his teeth have sharpened? ‘Let me in,’ he croons, ‘and all this goes away.’

Ravenous hunger and feral glee coils through the words. Chan’s tattoos flare up in response but the part of him that screeched in protest, cursing the demon’s existence, is very quiet now. He can barely hear it over the jangling of keys outside the cell.

‘Let me in, Chan.’

The lock clanks and the door swings open, revealing grim-faced Order members. One of them has blood on his white tunic. Chan’s blood.

‘Let me in and _they_ will go away.’

Wild, terrified eyes flick back to the demon’s resolute stare. He does not want to hurt anymore. He _does not want to_.

The cold voices are speaking again, to him now, unaware of the demon whispering in Chan’s ear.

_What is your name?_

‘I am Jisung.’

Chan finds the strength to lift his head a fraction, dread boiling in his veins. Jisung is grinning, shark-like, his fingers a gentle pressure on Chan’s skull.

 _Please,_ Chan begs. _Please, Jisung. Help me._

‘Of course,’ Jisung purrs, the intensity of his eyes painful to look upon.

The tattoos on Chan’s skin hiss and sizzle, melting away as Jisung pours himself into Chan and –

_Oh._

The sensation is overwhelming and by the time Chan can breathe again, there is no pain, only endless warmth wreathed in wood smoke and ripe berries. Chan has never felt so safe in his life and his soul does not shriek in horror at what he has done, but sigh in bliss. If he could, he would cry in relief.

 _See, I kept my word. Now,_ Jisung murmurs, _shall we have some fun?_

They open their eyes and see alarm, rage, and _fear_ painted over the faces of the Order members who hurt them so.

 _Yes,_ Chan hisses in reply, echoes of grief and hatred thick in his voice.

And they laugh and blood that is not their own drenches the walls.


End file.
